(Poem #1868) The Talented Man Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know it, --
Last week, at the Duchess's ball,
I danced with the clever new poet, --
You've heard of him, -- Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
He *is* such a talanted man!
He came up from Brazenose College,
Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I'm sure he's a talented man.
His stories and jests are delightful; --
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
The stories not always *quite* true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer, -- good gracious!
Chez nous -- in a talented man.
He sneers, -- how my Alice would scold him! --
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed -- only think! -- when I told him
How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment's quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.
Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt -- which is silly -- to quarrel,
And fond -- which is sad -- of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager's malice; --
She *does* hate a talented man!
He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He's lame, -- but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy, -- but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice, -- *such* a voice! my sweet creature,
It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan:
But oh! what's a tone or a feature,
When once one's a talented man?
My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He *has* been less horrid of late.
But today, when we drive in the carriage,
I'll tell her to lay down her plan; --
If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man!
P.S. -- I have found, on reflection,
One fault in my friend, -- entre nous;
Without it, he'd just be perfection; --
Poor fellow, he has not a sou!
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I've promised mamma to remember
He's only a talented man!
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This is an unexpectedly funny poem - I started off smiling, but had to laugh out loud before I was done. It's hard to write a humorous poem where the intent is that the reader laugh at the narrator; it's even harder when the main element of the poem's humour is that indefinable quality, "tone of voice". But Praed not only manages to thread the poem through with a delightful vein of sly humour, he makes the whole thing look wonderfully effortless - indeed, I was almost tempted to dismiss this as a funny but essentially trivial poem, until I started to think about just how chancy a thing humour can be. It's still a trivial poem, mind you, but it's also an impressive one. That humour of this sort is indeed tricky to handle is unfortunately revealed with a jar in the last verse, which has a definite "I have no idea how to end this" feel to it. The supplied punchline is superficially funny, but it is a tired, cliched sort of humour, and one inconsistent in tone with the rest of the poem. Happily, it doesn't detract from the rest of the poem - there is a slight sense of letdown at the end, but, at least for me, the lingering impression is entirely positive. martin Wikipedia entry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winthrop_Mackworth_Praed [Praed seems to have led an interesting and active life]
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